


an uneventful morn

by oh_simone



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Time Skips, US Marshal Cobb, undercover operative Din Djarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28687446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: There's not exactly a hush, but the tension on the floor does ratchet tight as the room full of federal agents takes stock of the newcomer. Not so much because of the leathers and heavy black combat boots, but of two details in particular—the motorcycle helmet obscuring his face, and the obvious outline of an occupied holster under his jacket.And then the man takes another step forward, revealing a strange bundle on his back.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 58
Kudos: 149
Collections: Most Favs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> guys I have zero knowledge of SW lore, and no business in this sandbox except for Timothy Goddamned Olyphant and his... _everything _.__

Cobb's chatting with Greer at his desk when the elevators ding open and a man dressed head-to-toe in black and silver motorcycle leathers steps off.

There's not exactly a hush, but the tension on the floor does ratchet tight as the room full of federal agents takes stock of the newcomer. Not so much because of the leathers and heavy black combat boots, but of two details in particular—the motorcycle helmet obscuring his face, and the obvious outline of an occupied holster under his jacket.

And then the man takes another step forward, revealing a strange bundle on his back.

The tension pops. An air of perplexity takes its place.

Cobb straightens out of his wary hunch as the stranger approaches.

"I need to speak with whoever’s in charge," the man says, voice low and gravelly.

Greer, helpfully, points at Cobb, who makes a note to bring this up in his annual. The helmet swivels, and Cobb gets the impression that he's being X-rayed, his stats reviewed.

"You're the chief?"

Cobb stares with bemusement at the baby strapped to his back. The baby stares back placidly. "Or somethin'," he says, tearing his gaze away to fix on his own reflection in the visor. The smoked glass gives nothing away of the man behind it.

"I need to speak with you," the stranger says, again in that blunt, brusque way. The helmet tilts fractionally. "In private."

Without looking away, Cobb shouts over his shoulder. "Mandy?"

"Yeah, Chief?"

"I got any meetings today?"

"You're free until 2."

"Okeydokey," Cobb mutters, and tilts his head as he turns to lead the way. "Come into my office. You want any coffee? Or uh, milk?"

"We're fine," the stranger says, curt. Cobb nods vaguely, and asks Mandy to get some water and sodas anyways.

Inside the office, the stranger waits in stiff silence until Cobb gets a clue and draws the shades.

"You can sit and take off the helmet," Cobb gestures with a crooked grin. "If you move your chair back and turn another forty-five degrees this way, the security cam won't get a clear shot of you."

The man follows his suggestion, then gingerly settles the kid in his lap. He doesn't take the helmet off however. Cobb is too bemused to push the matter. He eyes the kid instead—young enough to need carrying, old enough for a little walking, judging by his shoes. The boy—probably a boy? The onesie is green and printed with cartoon frogs— is calm. He doesn't seem perturbed by his guardian's unusual get up, nor of being eyeballed by a total stranger.

Cobb waves, and is rewarded with a gummy, drooly grin.

There's a brief knock and Mandy ducks inside to drop off some waters and a diet Coke. This time, Cobb makes a show of locking the door behind her. His instinct was correct; the stranger's shoulders soften fractionally.

"Nice to meet you," Cobb starts off calm and easy, keeping his tone light and friendly. "I'm Chief Cobb Vanth here at the Mos Pelgo office. Now, with all due respect, who the hell're you, who's the kid, and how can the US Marshal's office be of service today?"

For a moment, the stranger doesn't respond. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair under Cobb's interested stare, and then rearranges the child in his lap.

Cobb's patient though—in his job, you figure out when to wait and when to shoot pretty quick, and this moment is one for the former. Besides, it's been a while since the office had to handle a walk-in case quite like this, and if he's being honest, he's intrigued.

The man's hands come up slowly after another bout of silence, broken only by the child's curious grizzling. Cobb keeps his benign smile in place as the helmet is removed and set on the ground.

"Well, hello there," Cobb utters, because he has no self-control.

"I don't have identification I can show you," the man warns, his voice still gravelly and soft without the helmet. But now, Cobb can see those clear, sad eyes; the dark curls plastered flat with sweat; the exhaustion carved into a lined, handsome face. "I was undercover and my cover’s burned. My contingencies are shot, I can't reach my handlers, and I've got a key witness that needs security."

"A key witness?" Cobb echoes. His gaze snaps onto the child. "Ah." Something clicks into gear in his head— some headline about a busted lab halfway across the country, suspected arsonists, human experimentation. "<i>Ah</i>," he repeats.

"In return, I can get you information on Drago Krayt," the man tells him, and Cobb sits up with surprise.

“ _You_ know where Krayt is," Cobb restates, disbelief sharpening his words. 

"I know how to find him," is the terse correction.

Cobb suppresses the urge to demand answers, and instead nods slowly as he considers this evolving situation.

"So? Can you help me?" The man's expression is stoic, as though bracing himself to be rejected and unceremoniously kicked out. That, more than anything, makes up Cobb's mind.

"WITSEC don't exactly work that way," Cobb tells him, scratching his chin, but continues before the stranger can do more than slump in his seat. "Bu-ut I've got an idea, a stopgap solution that could tide you over until we get you properly set up."

"Grogu."

"Bless you?"

The man grimaces and gestures to the child. "Just Grogu."

Cobb asks curiously, "You won't join him in WITSEC?"

The man's hold on the child twitches protectively, and he stares down with a tender expression that Cobb isn't sure he's supposed to see. "I’m not his guardian, just the guy who got him out of there. And I've still got a job to do, and he needs to be kept safe. Can't do that if he's on the run with me."

"Alright, I'll see what I can do," Cobb says. He clears his throat and turns to the computer. "In the meantime, gimme something I can use to check in with the powers that be."

"Your clearance might not be enough."

"Alright secret agent man, I still gotta try," Cobb says with a roll of his eyes.

The stranger maintains a vaguely apologetic silence before an idea lights his eyes. He says softly, “Cara Dune. She’s with the marshal service at Nevarro. She can vouch for me.”

“I know of her,” Cobb hums. He rummages in his desk, finds the bundle in the back corner, and tosses it to the man who plucks the keys out of the air on pure reflex, if the startled look is anything to go by. Cobb explains, "I got a spare bedroom. House isn’t big, but the closest neighbors are a quarter mile down the road, and it’s quiet as all get out. It's got the best security a lawman can arrange for." He jots down his address and phone number on a post-it and hands it over. "You can head there first. Call me when you get to the gate, and I'll walk you through the alarms."

"This really isn't..." the man says, a little lost. Cobb waves off his protests with a shrug.

"A little unconventional, maybe, but Mos Pelgo's not one of those big city bureaucratic types. We can get away with doing things a bit outside the box. It's why you washed up here, isn't it?" he added knowingly.

A slow dip of the head.

Cobb beams.

The baby coos.

"So, your agency and identifiers?" Cobb prompts. The man gives it, and Cobb dutifully jots it all down. "And am I supposed to just call you Tall Dark and Handsome throughout the duration of your stay?"

The stranger coughs, and Cobb is unsurprisingly charmed by how little it takes to fluster this mystery man.

"Din," he says, voice a rough grumble. His ears, mostly covered by those dark curls, are pink. He fusses with Grogu’s sleeves instead of meeting Cobb's gaze.

"Pleasure, Din," Cobb drawls, his grin broad and easy. "I'm very glad to be of service.”


	2. come down from your fences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din survives the first Sunday at Cobb's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhhh I am a liar and a fool, and to those who subscribed on the teeny possibility there would be more... you were right all along.
> 
> Be forewarned, the rest of this will be more timestamps that hop and skip a lot of plot rather than a single coherent narrative. It is complete, and will all be up soon.

There was a dry creek bed that cut through the vast property behind the house.

Cobb had warned him about this when he and the kid had first fetched up in the spare bedroom. Stay alert if you’re out there—it’s desert, but the mountains aren’t too far off, and the ferocity of flash floods can roll boulders the size of large dogs along at bone-crushing speed. When the creek’s flowing, it’s nice though, you can take the kid down there. Just be careful, and if you see a rattlesnake, leave ‘em alone, back away nice and easy, Cobb had said.

That was all well and good, but Cobb’s backyard wasn’t so much a yard as it was sprawling, unwalled desert landscape, and Grogu hadn’t really gotten past the “I’d like to fit that in my mouth” stage yet of human development. So the second time Din had to haul the kid away from toppling into the muddy creek in pursuit of wriggling tadpoles, he decided that any communing with nature would be with the NatGeo channel for now.

Cobb’s home was a modest ranch home, two bedrooms, a small office, and a spacious, sunlit living room and kitchen, situated in a dry, cracked patch of land near the county line. A lone mesquite towered over the front yard, providing shade over an old rusting bench. It was quiet much of the time—the two lane highway that ran past and miles on, fed into the snarl of downtown traffic, didn’t see much activity out here, even less at night. During the day, the land smelled of heat and sand and baked straw, but when night fell, a faint sweetness filled the air and rose towards the starry sky, a sigh of relief from the overheated earth.

The first morning Din had woken up to the faintest creak of the flooring; he’d rolled out of the guest room, gun in hand and on high alert to find Cobb, already dressed for work and drinking his coffee on the back porch, watching the dawn seep pink and orange tendrils over the distant, cragged yellow hills and plateaus.

“They wanted to transfer me east,” Cobb told him, glancing at Din and politely not mentioning the gun. He tipped his mug out towards the hills. “Nothing like that sight anywhere but here.”

For the last week, Din had tried to keep Grogu to the common areas. Somehow at some point, Grogu had ferreted out a forgotten Roomba and spent countless hours scooching himself after the robot as it puttered along. It’d made Din nervous at first and he’d trailed Grogu and the robot as they bumped their way from one end of the living room to the other.

Then Cobb had arrived home unexpectedly early and caught sight of robot, child, and man weaving a drunken conga line past the sofa. Din could only stare red-faced as the marshal gripped the door frame and wheezed. When Din finally managed to ask stiffly if he was alright, Cobb had grinned and remarked that no wonder his house was so clean lately, and that was that. By the end of the week, Din felt no compunction about letting loose the Roomba for Grogu while he cobbled together lunch or checked his various burner phones and emails for messages.

The morning dawned clear and quiet; Din, used to Grogu’s fussy sleep schedule and a poor sleeper himself, crawled out of bed just as the sun began rising strong and warm, promising another scorcher. He snuck into the bathroom and by the time he’d returned, the kid was awake and babbling. Like every time Din reappeared in his sight, no matter how long the absence, Grogu’s wide black eyes lit up, and a mostly toothless grin crinkled his little face in pure delight.

Din ignored the fist that squeezed his heart at the sight and instead focused on checking the diaper.

“Good morning to you too,” he murmured as he noted the contained mess and fetched the wet wipes and a clean diaper. If anything, Grogu only grinned wider.

Fresh and ready for the day, Din propped Grogu on his hip and went into the kitchen. There were eggs in the fridge and some mushrooms, enough to make a couple omelets. Din settled Grogu on the living room floor where a blanketed spot was bordered with a few stiff pillows, handed him his stuffed frog and a battered board book and left him to it. As he chopped mushrooms and beat the eggs, he kept a steady ear on the baby shrieks and warbling, and was thus fully warned when Cobb began making his way from the bedroom to the kitchen. After a brief stop by the living room to murmur a little greeting to the baby, his footsteps crossed into the kitchen.

“Mornin’,” Cobb yawned.

Din shook a lumpy omelet onto a plate and turned about. After a beat, he managed a strangled, “Yeah.” Cobb’s grin turned a little querying until Din shoved the plate at him. Cleared his throat. “Toast’s about done.”

“You spoil me,” Cobb told him sincerely and ambled away to pop the lever on the toaster and fish out the bread. Din trained his eyes firmly on the second omelet in his pan. He’d forgotten that it was Sunday, and Cobb wasn’t going into the office today; usually, by the time the marshal appeared for breakfast, he was neat and professional, his tie the only pop of color. Now, though, he was in barefoot deshabille: mussed hair, old Glynco shirt and sweats, pillow creases marking his cheek.

Din stared at the omelet frying away in his pan and willed it to cook a little slower.

Behind him was the clattering and clapping and splashing of plates being set and cups being filled with milk and coffee. As Din slid a very well-done omelet out of the pan, Cobb stepped into the living room for Grogu. By the time Din turned about with his own plate and a smaller bowl of chopped up scramble, Cobb was dandling Grogu on his knee and engaging in an exciting and incomprehensible conversation. The pair glanced up at him with matching smiles.

“Thanks, Pop,” Cobb said for Grogu, and waggled Grogu’s little fist in Din’s direction.

“Well, eat up,” Din said, strangled, and tried to drown himself with coffee.

  


Thankfully, breakfast was plenty distracting as it usually was with a baby in the mix. By the time Grogu lost interest in his eggs and had returned to his bottle with ferocity, Cobb was already at the sink, rinsing off their plates and cutlery and stacking them on the drying rack.

“Need anything from town?” Cobb asked, leaning against the doorway, hipshot. Din glanced down at Grogu who stared back unblinkingly.

“Formula,” he said. “Thank you.”

Cobb eyed him a moment longer before shrugging. “No problem, partner. I’ll be back before lunch.” He rolled upright and moseyed off to get changed, and Din sagged in the kitchen chair. Grogu, still sucking intently at the bottle, freed one hand to wave and grasp at him until Din gave him his hand. The child gripped his thumb contentedly, and didn’t let go until the bottle was finished.

  


After Cobb had left for the store, Din settled the child in his makeshift play corner and booted up his laptop. Logically, reasonably, he understood what happened when an operative got made along with the rest of his team. Protocols called for complete radio silence, for disappearing into the wider world as best as possible, and making their way back to HQ in a properly roundabout way. It was, Paz used to say ironically, the closest thing to vacation people like them ever got.

Of course, no one ever factored a baby into that mix, and definitely not a… magical baby either. Grogu had an unsettling tendency to get his hands on whatever caught his fancy, whether it was the remote control on the high shelf, or, once, the Walgreen cashier’s disco ball earrings. _That_ had required fast-thinking—Din’d tossed back the earring and too many bills, and hauled ass before she could say anything.

In any case, none of the usual dead drops had turned up anything new, and there weren’t any unsent messages or shared notes in any innocuous apps. Din didn’t linger long, and instead stretched, checked Grogu’s diaper, and when he seemed fussy, turned on the Roomba, and let him at it.

His phone lit up with a call from a contact, and with some relief at having found a purpose, he picked up.

At some point, Cobb returned, quietly murmuring a greeting to the baby before settling the groceries in the kitchen and disappearing down the hall. Din barely noted this, being busy trying to convince the Tusken contact on the other end of the phone that no, the US government was _not_ going to use this as an excuse to raid their neighborhood and disrespect them in front of their families, cows, etc.

By the time they finally agreed to preliminary meetings on Tusken territory at an old roadside bar called, troublingly, Raiders, the sun had slipped past the noonday angle. Din hung up, tossed the phone aside and dropped his head forward. After the tense, long conversation, the peace and quiet surrounding him was a balm.

The Roomba congaed past, contentedly treading across the shag carpeting, and Din watched as it gently bumped into the table leg, spun, and reoriented towards the wall. He waited, staring. And then his heart leapt up and nearly strangled him when he realized it was _too_ quiet.

No child. Child _gone._ And then, rather wildly, _There are rattlesnakes outside!_

Din bolted from the living room, swung his gaze through the kitchen, and hurried down the corridor. The door of the guest room was closed, but that meant little to a kid with magical fingers. He yanked the door open and stared inside. No dice.

Turning, Din caught sight Cobb’s office door, half open. He stumbled forward, and then halted at the doorway.

He stared.

“- and J, and tag-along K, all on their way up the coconut tree! Chicka chicka boom boom will there be enough room?” Cobb was in his office chair, balancing Grogu against one arm and holding a battered board book in the other hand. The computer screen behind him was slowly flashing generic landscapes, offbeat counterpart to the quiet crooning.

“O nooo,” Grogu insisted, batting at the page.

Chuckling, Cobb obliged, flipping to the desired page. “Oh no! Chicka chicka boom, _boom!_ ”

“O nooooo,” Grogu agreed happily, throwing his arms out in delight.

“You’re a bloodthirsty little fella, aren’t ya?” Cobb quipped, and laughed when Grogu raised his sticky hand and tugged at his beard. “Hey, you wanna finish the book, you gotta let go, buddy.”

Grogu appeared to think about it and then turned forward, slapped the page again. “O _nooo_.”

“Chicka chicka boom boom,” Cobb agreed solemnly. He caught sight of Din then, and nudged Grogu gently. “Hey, look who’s up and ready for playtime! Who’s that?”

Grogu squealed and waved excitedly until Din stepped into the office and picked him up, tucking his soft baby curls against his neck. He breathed in the powdery sweet scent of Grogu’s skin and felt any residual adrenaline drain away.

“Sorry for bothering you,” he rasped. His tongue seemed to have gone dry as the desert outside.

Cobb shook his head. “I asked for it. Anything to avoid these quarterly reports,” he said ruefully. “You eat yet?”

Din shook his head.

“Alright, it’s my time to shine.” Cobb told him, “I may not be Emeril Lagasse, but ain’t nobody make a grilled cheese like I do. The secret is pimentos,” he winked, and clapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon.”

He continued towards the kitchen, but Din could only stare as he walked away with a loose, lanky gait, none of that sharp precision left over from the weekdays.

Objectively, Din understood that Cobb Vanth was a charming motherfucker. He met plenty of people like that in his line of work—well-groomed, full of small-town hospitality, and hard as steel underneath. He knew how to deal with business like that.

Not this, though. Not the smiles, the jokes, the sweet and easy way Cobb took up Grogu as though he handled fussy babes day in and day out. Not the unquestioning way he’d simply folded Din and the child into his quiet little life out on the outskirts of town. Not the kindness, unshowy, understated, but ever present.

Swallowing, Din scrubbed a hand through his hair. He missed his old cover, the fake identity and corresponding personality he could hide behind like a mask. Navigating someone like Cobb Vanth shouldn’t be done when one was so… naked.

“Mmmmuh,” Grogu said, and bashed his fist against Din’s cheek. “Mahbababammmba.”

Din sighed and patted his back. “It’s okay. As long as you use your fists and not your powers.”

From down the hall, the whine of electric guitars and crashing cymbals pealed; Cobb liked to cook to classic rock. He was probably swaying to the beat in front of the stove, nodding and wielding the spatula like a microphone.

Din exchanged a glance with Grogu. “Oh, kid, I know you like this place, but we gotta get out of here.” Else he’ll be tempted to never leave.

Grogu looked unimpressed and strained in the direction of Cobb’s pleasant, slightly off-tune singing. He settled down as Din shuffled towards the kitchen. Together, they made their way to the little spot of lively warmth; at the heart of little old house; somewhere in a dry and hardscrabble desert; far outside of town.


	3. name for the number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cobb finds more shady characters lurking in his office.

Well after a reasonable hour to end the workday, Cobb walked the aide from the mayor’s office out and was about to head home himself, except that the light was on in his office. He waved the aide into the elevator and eyed his own office. For a moment, he considered drawing his gun before sternly dismissing his own paranoia. But he kept his hands loose and ready as he backtracked towards the office.

Through the open doorway, Cobb could see that his office was, indeed, occupied. By two figures, in fact. One woman, East Asian features, outfitted in a sharp black pantsuit and an earwig, and with an admirably blank expression that both conveyed how little she cared for you personally, and also, deep scorn for your life choices. Cobb was strongly reminded of his Aunt Louise, who’d preferred dogs to children and became a nun.

“Come inside and take a seat, please,” said the second, and even more alarming figure. Cobb balked at being invited to a seat in his _own office._

“You’re in my chair,” Cobb told him, and the man finally looked up from the contents of a manila folder. He snapped it shut, and Cobb saw his own name spelled out neatly over the cover.

“And you,” said the man in a grim, grave rumble, “have my man.” He inclined his head. “Sit.” This time, it was even more clearly not a suggestion.

Cobb repressed the flare of annoyance. Eyed the woman’s casual slump and the man’s scarred face. Sat down. Noted with some aggrieved satisfaction that the guest chair was exactly as uncomfortable as he’d always suspected.

“So, to what do I owe this delightful…” Cobb gestured vaguely.

“Let’s call it a negotiation,” said the man.

Cobb raised a finger. “You know that if you’re trying to ah, negotiate, an early release, you should be down a floor at the DA’s office, right?”

The looks he received in return were withering. The man snorted and leaned forward over the desk.

“I’m talking about my operative currently in your kitchen trying not to burn canned soup. Does that clear things up, Chief Vanth?”

It sure did. Some of the tension in his shoulders slipped away to be refilled with indignant irritation. Goddamn spooks.

“What kinda soup?” Cobb asked, just to be belligerent, but it didn’t seem like the guy was interested in playing. He did get an eyeroll from the woman though. “So what do you want from me?”

“Only to do your job, Marshal,” the man assured. He tapped the file. “Neat work, the Krayt case.”

“Well, I had help,” Cobb said.

“So it was noted. My operative’s contacts with the Tuskens, not to mention the risk he took with his own life when your team’s efforts were insufficient.”

Cobb bristled. For the most part, he’d learned to take criticism with gritted teeth and a bland smile, but… “Now, hold on a minute. You don’t get to talk about my folks that way, not when you left your own man out high and dry for over a month. I don’t care how far you’re up the chain, I will throw you and your pretty friend there out on your asses if you try that again.”

The air thickened between them. Cobb held the man’s gaze, refusing to blink. And then with an almost audible crack, the tension broke. The man huffed a single cough of dry laughter.

“My apologies, Chief Vanth,” he said with a sudden turn into rough courtesy, and smiled. It was full of teeth, not particularly reassuring, and only made Cobb warier. “Shall we begin again? My name is Boba Fett. This is my associate Fennec Shand." He flashed a badge with stylized seal and a set of bold initials stamped across the front. Cobb only caught the first "MND" before it was whisked back into Fett's mysterious pockets. "And you are not wrong; we were delayed in reacting to Djarin’s situation. There were some internal matters that took precedent after his cover was blown and his cell dissolved. But rest assured. We continue to be very invested in his wellbeing.”

“Well,” Cobb said slowly, “good. You should be. Poor man’s spent the last few weeks looking as though a brisk wind could sweep him off the ledge. Except when he was making other folks cry.” And by folks, he meant Krayt. Oh, Cobb would bask in the warm glow of that image for a long, long time. He cleared his throat. “You want I can pick him and the kid up?”

Fett shook his head. “Won’t be necessary. We’d like the marshals to keep him where he is now or move him into WITSEC, whatever you deem appropriate.

Cobb’s eyebrows rose. “You’re leaving your man behind?”

The twin glares from the Danger Duo could’ve lasered his hair right off and left him as smooth and shiny as his unwanted visitor.

Fett said with flat formality, “For the time being, it is expedient for us to maintain the illusion that our operative and the witness with him are missing, presumed dead. At this point, we are closing on a delicate moment in where great success is balanced against great failure. Djarin, safe and out of harm’s way, is the best place for him right now. Is that sufficient explanation, or do you require more?” Fett’s clipped growling ended on a sardonic note.

Cobb resisted the urge to snarl back and instead ran the information back through his mind, trying to parse what was between the lines. When he was satisfied with his own analysis, and when he could talk without snapping, he nodded curtly.

“Mighty long list of favors your department’s racking up,” Cobb said mildly.

Fett didn’t look happy, but Cobb suspected that wasn’t anything new. “If that is what it takes,” he said, grim and firm. “Do you agree?”

“We’ll take care of it,” Cobb said. As if he was going to say no—Fett might be an irritating sonuvabitch, but Cobb liked Din, and the kid too. He would’ve kept them safe even if no agency had shown up to claim them. All that Fett’s appearance meant was that the paperwork would be handled faster.

“Good. Everything you need has been uploaded to your laptop in the top drawer.” The air gapped one that wasn’t and wouldn’t ever be connected to the internet or any other networks. Cobb wondered if it was time to find another hiding place for it, never mind his top drawer was locked. “Give this to Djarin.” Fett flicked a sealed envelope across the table. He stood up, and Shand followed a step behind, the two of them moving briskly out of the office.

“That’s it?” Cobb said, a little surprised. “What do I tell him if he has more questions?”

“He won’t. Good evening, Chief Vanth,” Fett said without looking back.

Shand did, though. She mouthed, ‘Vacation days’, and then lifted her eyebrows to convey in the most laconic manner that Din must have quite a lot accrued.

As soon as they’d disappeared (not via the elevators, like sane folk), Cobb muttered a short but impactful stream of curses as he rounded his desk. He grabbed the aforementioned laptop and the letter and tucked it into his pocket before heading out, making sure to lock his office door behind him, as pointless as that was by now.

It wasn’t until he was in his car and pulling out of the garage that Cobb really understood what this new development meant. At that, his mood, never too low for too long, brightened.

The call picked up on the third ring. Din sounded alert but not wary when he greeted him.

“Buddy, we’ve got a few things to discuss,” Cobb warned him genially. “I’m picking up pizza so we can go over some final paperwork.”

“He’s been approved? Already?” Din sounded shocked and a little unhappy, which was fair. Cobb’s original estimate of the time needed to set Grogu up had a bit more generous, what with the ramshackle circumstances of how they’d dropped in. All things considered, Din probably had been hoping for a little more time with the little tyke. Which, now he was about to get in spades.

“About that,” Cobb drawled. “Look, it’ll be easier if we go over this when I get back. You want any toppings?”

“Fine with anything. Wait—no pineapple. What’s going on? Cobb?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Cobb assured him quickly, catching the rising tension in his voice. “All good, I promise. And also, you might want to start making a few important choices.”

_Now_ Din sounded wary. “Such as?”

“You more of a Target or Ikea kinda man?”

“…Is that code for something?”

Cobb chuckled. "In fact, it is a very serious question for your consideration. Think on it; I'll see you soon.


	4. awake and further away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din and Grogu move into their new house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would it appease anyone if I noted that the reason I haven't slapped the whole thing up yet is because I... keep... adding to this... so there's actually more chapters than advertised...?

Sorgan was… nice. Quiet, surrounded by farmland but not too far from a commercial center. Good school district, the info packet noted, in case that was a concern.

The house they rolled up to was a simple cottage with a neat and brief front yard. Single-story, whitewashed, with a gray roof and a front porch just wide enough to fit a chair beside the door.

Inside, Din looked around the little one bedroom. Neatly furnished, empty beige walls and wooden floors. It was simple, efficient; not quite a home in the way Cobb’s ranch house was, but the potential was there.

Grogu was clingy today, hadn’t let Din put him down since they’d left the car. That left Marshal Motto, who’d driven them, and Cobb, who’d followed in Din’s new rental, to do the majority of the moving. There hadn’t been much, but Din still felt bad enough that he offered to order pizza.

Cobb grimaced apologetically. “Much as I’d love to take you up on it, I’ve got to be on my way. Peli’ll be your main point of contact.”

“That’s right, buddy,” Peli grinned, shaking Grogu’s little fist. “We’re gonna be good friends.” The kid allowed this for a beat before shying back and peeking out at her from under Din’s chin.

“Hey, say goodbye, Grogu,” Din instructed.

Grogu opened and closed his fist halfheartedly. “Byebye.”

“Seeya, kiddo,” Peli said cheerfully, then to Cobb, “I’ll wait in the car.”

“Thanks Peli,” Cobb said, still smiling at Grogu. Din nodded his gratitude as well before she closed the front door behind her. “C’mon, little man, can I get a hug before I go?”

“Grogu?” Din asked. He hoped the kid cooperated—he’d seen how well they’d taken to each other in the past two months. But he wouldn’t force it.

Fortunately, Grogu eyed Cobb for only a moment longer before wordlessly reaching out. Cobb gently lifted him from Din’s arms, forearm brushing against his clavicle briefly as he did. He mock-groaned at the weight and bounced Grogu a couple times, eliciting a giggle before settling him into a comfortable hold.

“Alright, you be good for your Din, okay?” Cobb murmured. “Someone’s got to make sure he’s okay.”

Grogu stared solemnly back.

“No magic fingers in public, and no chewing on any wires okay?”

“He’s not a dog,” Din pointed out.

“That’s just not thinking creatively, and you ‘n me, we think outside the box, right kiddo?” Cobb crooned, slowly swaying into a lazy circuit about the living room. The floorboards creaked in off-key harmony. “Check the duffel’s side pockets, I got you outlet protectors.”

Din didn’t want him to leave.

The thought struck him like a runaway truck hurtling down a graded highway and smashing through concrete roadblocks.

Put a gun in his hand, throw him into the middle of a firefight with no cover and no way out, and Din wouldn’t break a sweat. Shove him in a cement cell with strobing lights and no windows, he’d get a decent six hours of sleep.

But Grogu wasn’t an enemy combatant. He wasn’t a bomb in need of disarming or a terrorist strapped with IED. He was just a baby, who had the incredibly shitty luck to land Din Djarin as his caretaker. And who was Din, but a fucked up old soldier and spy so close to burning out his handlers pulled him off active missions and assigned him to play house instead.

At least at Cobb’s, Din could pretend that he wasn’t quietly losing his mind with terror. With someone else around to smile and talk and make the baby laugh, Din could pretend he was simply— ordinary.

But this new reality around him… this new house would never have art on the walls. The garden would remain unplanted of herbs and summer squash. Clutter wouldn’t exist because they’d never collect enough before they had to bolt. When they leave—not if, when— this space will be the same. No scuffs to mark their presence, no holes to spackle over. They were ghosts; it was all Din knew how to be. But Grogu deserved to be so much more.

“Hey, you alright?”

Din jolted, his maudlin, spiraling thoughts abruptly quieting. Cobb peered at him with concern.

A thought rose to the surface of his mind—Din wished Fett had not found them. What if he’d stayed in the safe haven of Mos Pelgo forever, living off the strange kindness of this ordinary lawman, raising Grogu in the wild desert in solitude and safety? The simplest of dreams. But then again, dreams hurt when one was trying just to survive.

His eyes slid to Grogu, nestled against Cobb and contentedly fingering his red silk tie.

“Fine,” Din rasped.

Cobb’s expression softened, and Din gritted his teeth so he didn’t turn and run. “It’ll be tough, I’m not ‘bout to lie. But hey, we’re gonna take care of you two. And it can be lonely as hell, I know. But you won’t ever be alone. There’s always someone on watch, whatever happens.”

“Bet you say that to all your witnesses.”

A grin stole across Cobb’s face. “Now, don’t be jealous. You know the pair of you are my favorites,” he said, flickering a wink at Din.

Oh, Din had to survive. He really, really wanted to survive.

Grogu started fussing then. Din ducked to dig through the diaper bag and came up with a plastic container with cut up strawberries. Cobb handed Grogu over. Din adjusted his hold on the kid and gave him the fruit cup—peace returned briefly.

Neither of them stepped back right away, and something in Din’s mind went white and quiet. Up close, the tired smudges and fine lines of exhaustion in Cobb Vanth’s face were unavoidable. He smelled of coffee, sweat, laundry detergent, dust of the desert. Din wanted to imprint this moment into his senses, store it as a memory for the lost, cold times ahead.

“You’ll get through this,” Cobb said, so quiet it was just a low rumble. The sincerity was unbearable; ears burning, Din swallowed and stepped away. He nodded in agreement.

“Thank you, Marshal,” he managed, and glanced out the window. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hold you up.”

Cobb watched him, his faint smile unreadable. Just before the silence slid into uncomfortable, he dipped his head. “My pleasure. You take care now, get some rest. Grogu?”

The baby blinked at him, fingers absently mashing up a bit of berry.

“I’ll see you soon, partner.”

Din followed Cobb to the front door and watched from the porch as the marshal loped down the steps and over to the curb where Peli was waiting. When Cobb glanced over his shoulder, Din even managed a halting wave. One final exchange of smiles, and then the car was pulling away from the sidewalk and gathering speed.

Behind him the house waited, empty and colorless. Din stepped back inside, closed the door and locked it. He stared at Grogu who was starting to squirm.

“You want Froggy?” Din asked.

“Woom,” Grogu replied.

Sighing, Din trudged towards the bedroom. “There’s no Roomba here. But we’ve got Froggy, your Chicka Boom, and bananas…”

Unnoticed by Din, Grogu spread his little fingers wide as they moved down the hall and smeared a sticky sweet streak of red along the pale white walls.


	5. what seems to be is better than nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cobb meets the neighbor.

“They’re not home.”

“What?”

“Your man and his boy.”

Cobb stopped, finger just over the bell, and turned his head. On the neighboring porch, a woman eyed him serenely from her chair where she’s shelling a pile of fresh peas. He rocked back a little on his heels as he processed her words.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” he said mildly. “I thought I’d surprise them.”

She cracked a grin. “They won’t take long. Took my Winta down to the corner store for boba tea. If you’ve got a key, I’m sure he won’t mind if you wait inside.”

Cobb did, but he shrugged instead. “Guess I’ll just have to wait, then.” He waved. “You need a hand with that, Ms…?”

She raised an eyebrow, but dipped her head. “Just Omera. Sure, if you’d like.”

“I’m Cobb. Lovely to meet you, Omera,” Cobb said, loping over to the neighboring porch easily and settling down on the wooden bench across from her. He took up a pod and began stripping the stem with familiarity. It’d been awhile, but he remembered doing this with his grandmother, once upon a time.

“Likewise,” she said, eyeing his slower but careful work approvingly. “It’s nice to finally meet you. He speaks of you fondly.”

Cobb very carefully maintained his pleasant expression. “He talk about me a lot?”

“Only when pressed.” At Cobb’s questioning look, she smiled, close-mouthed. “Your man doesn’t talk much, but there’s only so many secrets he can defend in the face of Sorgan’s network of bored gossips.”

“I know what small-town living is like,” Cobb laughed.

“Then you should know, the only thing that can distract the busybodies from a handsome stranger is the appearance of two handsome strangers,” she told him.

“Well now you’re just making me blush.”

Omera sent him a dry look, her fingers fleet as they send the peas into one basket and the shells to another.

“So what have you heard about me?” Cobb asked, but casually. Very evenly. Because he should know, for marshal purposes, and not for any other reason.

“Nothing bad, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s very proud of what you do, but he worries as well.”

“Yeah, well, I know, but someone’s got to do it,” Cobb agrees, wondering what the hell kinda fictional career he was now defending.

“You could always retire. Or find something close by,” she suggested.

“Suppose so, but it’s steady work,” he edged.

Omera tsked skeptically. “That’s a little cynical.”

“Is it?” Cobb’s voice was a little high. His mind flashed through steady-work-but-cynical careers: undertaker. Divorce lawyer. Insurance investigator. Preschool teacher.

She shot him a dry look. “Banking on desperate people skipping town just to make a living doesn’t strike you as such?

“Ah,” Cobb says with relief. “Bounty hunter. Yeah, I guess so. S’probably too late for a career change now. So tell me how’s Din doing in the neighborhood?” he asks.

With a faint smile to show she’d noticed the hasty subject change, she said instead, “Well. He’s a man of action, not of words, and people around here can appreciate that. Also, Grogu is a very charming child.”

“That’s my boy,” Cobb said cheerfully.

Her eyes slid briefly to him before falling back to the street, the passive scan of someone waiting for a return. “He must miss you when you’re gone.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“They both do.”

Cobb scratched his chin, torn between not wanting to know more than he was supposed to, and hearing it all. “He tell you that too, huh?”

“No,” she said calmly. “But he smiles a little more when you’ve come by.”

“Ah,” Cobb said, and stopped. He stripped the pods in his hands on pure physical reflex. There’s no jealousy or envy that he could make out in her words or demeanor, but even so, he got the impression the words were the sedate lid to a Pandora’s box of sentiments. _Lady_ , he thought ruefully, _you might think I don’t deserve him, you might think he’s better off homemaking it out here, and I might even agree with you, but you have_ no _idea_. Instead, he told her, “It’s not easy, but I try my best to do right by him and the little one.”

Omera hummed politely. “I suppose all anyone can do is their best.” Her eyes flickered past him to the road. “Oh, I think they’re back.”

Cobb turned with some relief to see Din with Grogu on his hip and a young girl skipping besides him with a brightly colored drink in hand. When he caught sight of Cobb, Din hesitated slightly, his steps slowing half a beat. And Cobb, holding his gaze, inclined his head just slightly.

“Thank you, Din. Will you stay for dinner? Cobb is welcome too, of course,” Omera asked as the girl ran up the porch steps.

“Oh, no, that’s very kind of you,” Din said.

Cobb dusted his hands off on his jeans and stood up. “Thank you for the invitation, Omera, but I hope you’ll forgive me for wanting to keep these two to myself tonight.”

She laughed and waved them off. “Of course, of course. Enjoy the rest of your day. Bye bye, Grogu.”

Cobb ambled off the porch towards Din, who stood stiffly at the end of the front walk. Grogu babbled in recognition as Cobb joined them. In an improvised move, Cobb slung an arm across Din’s back and bent down to buss Grogu’s plump baby cheek, spurring a delighted cackle of laughter.

“Hello, boys.”

“…Marshal.”

“Miss me?” Cobb goaded, and that made Din’s expression melt into one of faint irritation.

“You’re early.”

“Maybe I missed my man,” Cobb said innocently.

“I never said anything like that,” Din sighed, as they headed into the house. “One of the neighbors made an assumption, and it stuck.”

“Better that than the truth, I guess.”

As they crossed the threshold, Cobb’s arm dropped away, and all vestiges of his smile disappeared. It was true, he thought a little wistfully, that Din would smile more after his visits. Most of the time, they were routine check-ins, updates on the ongoing case against Moff Gideon and Empire Incorporated, delivery of any special requests. Cobb would spend the night in the guest room, make them all breakfast in the morning, and then drive the six hours back to Mos Pelgo. And Din could breathe a little freer in the days after.

But not today. Din clocked the change in atmosphere immediately. For a moment, a dark tension gripped the air between them, settling heavily. Cobb reached out and touched Din’s shoulder sympathetically. It was urgent, but they had a little time, time enough at least, to settle Grogu down for a nap, to eat something, and pack.

“You go on and get your things in order,” Cobb told him. “I’ll watch the kid and make some sandwiches.”

Din clung to Grogu briefly, pressing his mouth tight against the boy’s forehead before handing him over. “Marshal Motto?”

“Waiting in Mos Eisley. She’s got the rest of the transfer details. I told her I’d pick you two up since I was on my way anyhow. I’ll drop you two off on my way back.” Cobb patted Grogu’s back. He hated the look that all folks in this situation developed—an exhausted, sullen fear mixed with resignation. But it was better this nasty resentment than death, Cobb reasoned. And Din never took his frustration out on Cobb.

Even now, as he shuffled into the bedroom to gather their belongings, Din managed a rueful grin as though to reassure Cobb of his gratitude. Before Cobb could think it through, he grabbed Din’s arm, tethering him to the spot.

“Hey,” he said, and waited until Din turned and met his eyes silently. Cobb’s old heart was a rattled, scarred up old thing, bruised and scratched by what he’d seen and done over the decades. His nights weren’t often peaceful, and bourbon went down a little too easy. He knew exactly how deep his veneer of polish and charm went, and where the rough edges poked through, hard as armor and sharp to boot. He was not in the habit of being comforting. But he sometimes wanted to be. With this man, who was a mystery in almost every way except for the soft look he kept for a boy he insisted was not his own child, Cobb wanted to be a rock, a roof.

At his core, though, Cobb was a pragmatist.

“… I’ll let you pick the music,” he said, the grin too easy on his mouth. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but still something must have given him away. Din didn’t say anything in response; after a lingering, thoughtful look, he breathed out a sigh.

“Thank you, Marshal,” he said, offering a flicker of a smile.

Cobb gave his arm a light squeeze before letting go and turning to Grogu, who was fussing now, tugging at his collar for his attention.

“Rana,” Grogu said querulously. “Peas?”

Cobb glanced up, and blinked at the clementine bobbing above the kitchen counter. Oh, right. Magic baby. “Orange, huh? You got it, kiddo.”

“Peas, sanks.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Cobb settled the baby in his lap in this little almost-home, and peeled the orange in one long continuous strip. He couldn’t rush the feds on the case, couldn’t magically discover missing evidence, couldn’t yell at the bureaucratic red tape holding everything up, wouldn’t even be able to keep in contact with them once they were on to the next safehouse and out of his territory.

But this, pretending for one moment that he was simply watching his kid while his man was busy, feeding Grogu one sweet section of fruit at a time and tickling his soft baby belly until his chuckles echoed through the house, this Cobb could do.


	6. don't stick it to your heart so hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din returns briefly to active duty, but all is not well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All is done! All is really actually done this time!

Somewhere between one midwestern city and the next is when Grogu finally snaps. That’s what it seems like to Din anyhow—the kid, who’d been for the most part a cheerful, if mischievous companion on this long and uncertain journey, just fully loses it in the cereal aisle of a Meijer and doesn’t stop while Din rushes through checkout with only half his list, hurries the five blocks home, and up the three floors to the apartment where Bo Katan and her unit were waiting with packed gear.

“What’s wrong with him?” Axe asks, eyeing them warily as though Grogu’s one tick away from blowing up.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Din growls, shoving the bag of groceries at him and heading into the bedroom. Grogu wails, and then shrieks when Din tries to set him down, to check his diaper, to hand him his stuffed frog. His fists flail and catches Din square on the cheek

“Grogu, what’s wrong, buddy, you gotta tell me,” Din pleads, bouncing him even as he stuffs extra pants and formula single handedly into the diaper bag. “You can’t be like this for Mrs. Palaka.”

If anything, Grogu sounds off louder.

Din, nerves frayed and on edge from everything else going on, just swings the bag over his shoulder and heads out, ignoring the Nite Owls watching him silently. He knocks on the Palaka’s door and apologizes profusely as he hands Grogu off.

“Thanks for taking him, I’m so sorry, I’m not sure why he’s doing this,” he blurts out. But Mrs. Palaka just smiles and shoos him off; she’s extremely pregnant, which only heightens Din’s general guilt, but she’s also exuding a practical calm, and her oldest daughter Raina is already pulling faces at Grogu, trying to distract him from his tears. “I’ll be back, Grogu,” he says, desperately. “I’m so sorry. I should be back in a day.”

Grogu’s air-raid screams follow him all the way down the hall snagging at his heart. But Din’s got to focus—a mission, the first in almost a year, and with a unit he’s never worked with before. By all rights, he shouldn’t be called in. But there are greater forces at play here, and the marshal on his case has been ordered to turn a blind eye. It will mean another move though, another cover blown. Din just hopes that whatever happens in the next twelve hours, it will be worth it. He’s got someone else to think about now.

It’s easy then, to slip behind that hard mask of operative. When Bo Katan catches him at the door with his pack, he takes it without a word and follows them out.

Fourteen hours later, the headquarters of Gozanti Multinational have been infiltrated, its servers hacked, and its offices bugged. Din only has to concuss two people the whole night, which is a victory in itself. There’s a few tense moments when Bo Katan’s light up with murder when she realizes a particular piece of information is actually not onsite, but professional through and through, she locks her jaw keeps going. They exfiltrate the downtown building, discard the security and janitorial outfits in a random back alley trash can, head out. Din hitches a ride with Reeves to the bus station and is barely out of the car before she speeds off. All said and done, Din really hopes Director Fett doesn’t loan him out to the Nite Owls again.

As soon as the bus crosses state lines, he turns on his phone. One ping, followed by another, and then Din’s staring at seven missed calls and three voicemails.

“Mama says the fever broke just before you got here,” Raina tells him. Din nods numbly, unable to look away from Grogu, still warm and sweaty. The kid didn’t wake up when Din turned up at the Pakala’s door, out of breath and filled with unfamiliar dread. Grogu hasn’t done more than grizzle sleepy protests before smushing his face into the crook of Din’s neck and falling back into shallow breaths.

Mrs. Pakala, with only a few strands of unsettled hair to show for what has doubtless been a horrible night, smiles and pats Grogu’s back soothingly. She says something to her daughter, who dutifully relays that Grogu will be alright—he had some baby Tylenol and Pedialyte and just needs rest and sleep. Din mumbles his thanks and apologies in a haze, and tries to hand them some bills. Mrs. Pakala firmly motions for him to put it away as she walks them to the door, so Din slips the money to Raina with a weak smile instead.

Back in their apartment, Din tries to lay Grogu down on the bed so he can start packing, but the kid stirs. He doesn’t scream or shout, just whines miserably until Din gives up and tucks him against his chest.

“Hey, good morning,” Din murmurs, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “You had a rough night, huh?”

Grogu sniffs and nods.

“You hungry? Want some juice?” Grogu shakes his head, wiping his snotty nose all over Din’s not-that-clean shirt in the process.

“Okay,” Din says. The aftereffects of exhaustion, guilt, and fear bloom and shrivel infinitely in his chest; he thinks, how can he be responsible for a _child_ , he hadn’t even realized anything was wrong until it was too late. He’s the guy who drove a motorcycle to a courthouse with a baby _strapped to his back_. Why doesn’t anyone _see_ that, why doesn’t anyone _stop him_.

“Rana joos?” Grogu pleads hopefully, jolting Din out of his spiraling despondency.

“You got it,” he says, and rifles through the diaper bag for the full bottle. He sits down on the bed, leaning against the headboard and lets Grogu scoot into position. It is all very peaceful and sweet, except for the raging storm inside of Din.

When the phone rings, he barely has the presence of mind to pick it up. Grogu glares faintly over the bottle at the noise, until Din answers it. It’s Marshal Motto, who’s reminding him they have two hours before she’s driving them somewhere new, start all over again. Another city, she hints, somewhere dense with concrete and noise. Lots of new experiences for a kid like Grogu, nice change of pace for Dad. She says it like it’s a given.

Din hangs up and meets Grogu’s gaze. “Ms. Peli’s coming to see us,” he tells him. Grogu kicks and the bottle slips away.

“Woomba?” he says hopefully. He asks every time he learns they’re leaving. “Woomba?”

And like every time, Din laughs. “You miss Uncle Cobb, huh?” A little lie he keeps up—that the marshal is something more like family. Easier than trying to explain to a kid barely eighteen months that the man who’d provided the most stable home for them so far was only doing his job, no more, no less.

Or, Din knows that isn’t the whole truth. Cobb is- could— Din believes, Cobb would want to see them again, and know they are well. That isn’t wishful thinking.

Only, Din wasn’t _alone_ , staying with Cobb, and now he is, and if he dwells on that any longer, on that old desert house with the kitchen radio and the Roomba and wide starred sky, he fears he might crack right down the middle.

Grogu sighs against Din’s absent patting, sinking back into sleep. There’s probably no time for a bath before they leave but he definitely needs at least a wipe down and a change of clothes; Din should get up and finish packing, but he stays, holding the child in his arms.

Din’s eyes slip close—for one, indulgent, unwatched moment, he pretends that the two of them have been away on a long and winding trip, and are finally heading home. And if this imagined home has a mesquite tree out front and a tall, thin man at the door with an easy grin behind the door, it’s only for a half-dreamt minute.

When it passes, Din will go on as he always has.


	7. a chair is not a house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cobb gets a call from his least favorite covert operative.

The call came in over Cobb’s work cell phone, around two in the morning.

Because Cobb had been, at times and not without reason, accused of an unhealthy work-life balance, he was still awake reviewing case notes in his home office and slowly depleting his bourbon. He picked up the phone, noted the hour and the unknown number, and answered it anyways.

“Chief Vanth,” graveled an ominously familiar voice.

Cobb took the phone away from his ear and scrubbed a hand over his face before replying. “Director Fett,” he said, trying to sound alert and professional when there was a sinking stone that was gathering in the pit of his stomach. “It’s been awhile.”

Almost half a year in fact, since he’d heard anything about Din and the kid, their case having passed out of his jurisdiction and further shadowed by Din’s own agency loyalties. He’d been tempted several times to pull up their file, but managed to restrain himself. Best case, he’d get Cara Dune out in Nevarro ribbing him over email about this “crush”, and worst case, he drew the wrong sort of attention to the pair of them. So despite the messenger, Cobb’s mouth went dry with anticipation for news.

Fett grunted. “Update for you,” he said bluntly, and Cobb held his breath through the long pause that followed. “The child was taken. Djarin is alive. We’re working on getting him back. I need you to provide a character reference for Migs Mayfeld by oh-seven-hundred.”

Cobb spluttered. “The _felon_?”

“Oh, good, you do know him.”

“Of course I know of him. Hell, every single law enforcement officer west of the Mississippi knows about him and that mess up at Bothan Correctional. What the hell does he have to do with Din? And hang on hang on, just go back—did you say Grogu was _kidnapped_?”

“We believe Gideon has him currently, yes, and we are working on getting him back safely. Mayfeld might be a felon, but he is a useful felon.”

Cobb threw up his hands where Fett couldn’t see him. Not that he’d put it past the creepy motherfucker to have bugged his damn house. “The hell you get me involved for.”

“Paperwork,” Fett said. “Don’t worry—you aren’t being asked to do anything but sign off on a few things. Shand will be sending it over shortly. Dune from the Nevarro office’s got everything else covered.”

“Dune’s in on this?” Cobb asked, silently groaning because he’s already reaching for his laptop, dragging it close and pulling up the browser.

“She is.”

Cursing, Cobb scrolled through his email until he spotted the culprit in some junk folder he didn’t even realize existed. As he pulled up the attached documents and squinted at whatever the hell he was about to sign, Fett stayed quiet. The silence only highlighted Cobb’s own growing irritation and agitation; he was tempted to drag the paperwork (something something falsified transfer documents, something something oh-god-please-not-be-too-illegal) into the trash icon and hang up.

Fett finally broke silence. “Djarin will be alright as long as he’s got a focus.”

Cobb grit his teeth, not needing the rest of it spelled out for him. Someday, somehow, the memories of a scruffy, sad-eyed, stone-cold badass and his tiny child would worm themselves through and out the other end of his aged heart.

But not tonight, it seemed. Cobb finished scanning the paperwork, signed them electronically, and sent them back.

“Why’d you really call?” he asked, sitting back in his chair. “Don’t tell me you generated all this paper trail and then got cold feet at forging my signature.”

“That is above your clearance, Chief Vanth,” Fett told him serenely. “All you need to know is that thanks to your assistance, we will have what we need to locate and extract the child safely. Djarin passes along his gratitude as well.”

Cobb worked his jaw silently. So he was right; they didn’t need him, only looped him in because—what? Din asked? To give him a heads up before shit hit the fan? Would Cobb even know if they’re successful, or would it be information blackout until Cobb happened to see the fallout on CNN?

He pushed it all down and cleared his throat. “Tell Din to be careful,” he said instead. “To bring the kid home.”

“Of course,” Fett says, dry and distant, already losing interest. “Anything else?”

“Tell him he owes me a drink,” Cobb said firmly.

Fett snorted. “Goodnight, Chief Vanth. Get some sleep.”

After he hung up, Cobb glared at the phone. “Asshole.” The house around him, his peaceful little spread out on the margins of the vast desert, yawed and pitched with hollow shadows. Too big, too empty.

He turned off his computer, switched off the lights, and made his way in darkness to the bedroom. There on his bed, he lay awake until dawn.


	8. outta my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (An internal interlude)

Dear Marshal Vanth,

Thank you for—no, start over.

It may interest you to hear that… You may have heard from some sources that…

I wanted to thank you for your help last year, when I approached your office. Jesus Christ. Just go to sleep, Din. Twelve hours before the raid, and you’re composing what, love letters in your head? It’s not a love letter. Why the hell would it be a love letter? It’s a thank you note, those exist. You probably do owe him one of those at least.

He’s a lawman, like you, except that he moves in the light, so if you were—not saying you will, but _if_ —keep it brief and to the point. Bullet points.

Dear Marshal.

When you first sheltered us a year ago, I don’t think you realized what it meant to someone like me, like Grogu.

Me, it’s been a long time since I expected to eat a free meal off of anybody. Not a lot of things for free in my experience. No reason to give what you’re not paid for either. I guess lines aren’t so clear cut outside in the world, but it’s easier to prepare for the worst.

Christ I’m tired. Is Grogu sleeping alright? He can’t sleep without his stuffed frog; it’s chewed up and gross as hell, but can’t even look at it right now without—

The kid deserves so much better, Marshal. _You_ know. You met him. He missed you, you know? Always asking when Uncle Cobb was gonna visit. Asking if we could go stay with you again. Really misses the Roomba, probably more than he does you, heh. We weren’t there for more than two months, but that was almost—it could’ve been…

Should sleep. Can’t sleep. Bo Katan and the Nite Owls—weird name by the way, sounds like a doowop cover band— somehow have no trouble; thought the snoring was Waxes, but nope, it’s Reeves. Fett and Kryze hate each other’s guts, so I don’t wanna know what he promised her for her help. _I’m_ not sure I get the scale of the favor I owe her just yet. Not looking forward to finding out. Kinda preferred it when she only knew me as ‘that-crazy-bitch-from-Armor-Unit’s second’. Won’t say no to help though. It’s going to be a hell of a job.

Wonder when I got in the habit of talking to you in my head before sleep. It’s weird, right? You’re the one who talks. I’m the guy who has nothing to say until guns are involved.

It’s how I was raised. Never realized until these past couple of years how exhausting that is.

I don’t want Grogu to grow up like that. He’s not even my kid, but I’m… invested. He deserves a good family, education. He should go to the same school for years at a time, make friends. Play sports or join mathletes if he wants. He shouldn’t live like this, shuttled from town to town, or locked up in a lab. He needs a home. Parents who love him. New shoes every year. Everything that I never had.

There’s maybe an end in sight, Marshal. Shand’s said that the Feds are wrapping up their investigation, which means that warrants and arrests will start happening. We just need to hang in there. Get Grogu out of there, and disappear for just a little longer. Then it’s a new start for him, a clean slate.

And me too, I guess. I think after this, I might be done. Can’t stop thinking about it, just letting it go, starting over, somewhere I don’t have to hide and fight and lie. Maybe I’ll take up trucking. Don’t mind the long hauls or being alone on the road. Driving’s pretty peaceful, and I won’t be bored sitting around an office all day.

Maybe when I pass through town, we can grab a drink and catch up. Maybe you can recommend me a place in town I can rent for those days I’m in between hauls. Would be nice to have a place of my own, where I could come back to. There’re no nightmares in Mos Pelgo.

There won’t be Grogu either. But you’ll remember him, too. And I think that will be bearable.

Hours left. Nothing matters at all if we don’t—don’t win. Can’t lose him, though either way, he’ll be gone. Can’t take him where I’m going, but it’s getting harder to accept that.

I’m not a dreamer, Marshal. But having the kid around, I think I’ve started to learn how.

Start simple—I just want him back, safe and sound. And maybe I’ll push a little further from there.

Go to bed, old man. You’re almost out of time.


	9. face the strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone finally takes responsibility.

In front of the smoking collapsed north wing of Empire Inc’s no-longer-secret facilities, Din clutched Grogu, whole but worryingly silent, to his chest and shoved the mask and goggles off his face, gulping in the smoke-dusty air with relief. All things considered, it was a beautiful day—skies clear and blue, sunshine strong and hot, with a brisk wind to wick away the heat and sweat. A perfect day, to perfectly showcase the destruction all around them.

Over to the side, Boba Fett conferred with a few FBI agents, and Bo Katan, refusing to be left out of negotiations, a belligerent shadow. Last Din saw, Cara had slapped cuffs on Gideon and handed him off to the FBI agents, and the rest of Team Kid Rescue were clustered to the side, medics fussing over a few minor injuries. So Din felt completely content to sit in this half acre of rubble and dust and check over his kid.

Did Grogu get bigger in the month they’d been apart? The kid reached out and pressed his toddler fist to Din’s cheek.

“Dada, I miss you,” he said solemnly.

Din’s heart twisted and he fought to keep his face from doing the same. “I’m sorry, baby. I missed you too,” he whispered instead.

Grogu seemed to accept this with equanimity. “Okay. Go home time?”

“Yeah, time to go,” Din said quietly as Boba and an agent broke away from the small cluster and headed towards him. He eyed the young agent warily. The man was slight and boyish, sandy hair a touch too long for regulation and an amiable expression that couldn’t quite hide the sharpness of his eyes. Din considered wallowing in his exhaustion and staying put, before slowly and painfully making his way upright. Grogu patted his chest encouragingly.

“Thanks buddy—hey, drop that.”

Grogu held his gaze and a twist of dusty rebar dropped to the ground next to them just as the two men drew up. Boba very kindly did not mention Grogu’s little attempt at weapons acquisition.

“Djarin, this is Agent Skywalker with the FBI,” Boba said curtly.

“Hello,” Skywalker said. “I’ve been waiting to meet you two for a very long time.”

Din grunted and shook his hand warily. “Sorry for the mess.”

Skywalker laughed. “Oh, it’s no problem; I’m probably responsible for at least a third of it.”

Din squinted. “Demolitions?” There _had_ been some suspicious rumblings while they were running pell-mell out of the building—they’d been tapped into the security cameras, but the feeds kept cutting out in swathes of white noise.

But instead of responding, Agent Skywalker raised one hand. For a moment, Din stared, wondering if he was motioning for a high five. And then, Din realized that a hush had settled about them, and that a chunk of collapsed wall just behind them was suddenly un-collapsed and hanging in mid-air.

“…Oh,” Din said, strangled.

“My department’s a little more specialized,” Skywalker said demurely. “In fact, I’d like to talk to you and Grogu about it.” Noticing the wall was being more distracting than helpful by now, Skywalker waved and the wall gently settled back on the ground. A little more quietly, he added, “I also have some information about Grogu’s background that you might like to know.”

Din swallowed. “His family?”

“We’ll talk at the office. CPS will be present as well,” Skywalker said. Din’s stomach sank and twisted; his grip on Grogu tightened, but the kid didn’t protest, only tucked his head a little tighter against Din’s shoulder.

“Child protection wasn’t interested before,” Din rasped, unsure if he was protesting or just stating the fact.

“It’s complicated, Din,” Boba grunted. “Go on ahead with Agent Skywalker. We’ll debrief after you’re done.”

“Come on,” Skywalker said encouragingly. “I’ll buy you a burger on the way.”

It felt like the beginning of an end. Din watched Skywalker head out towards the bank of black SUVs, gait easy and assured. He didn’t look back at Din once.

“You’d better get going before he twitches his nose and reels you along like a kite,” Boba said, not unsympathetically. “Be good, kiddo.”

Grogu kicked absently in agreement and Din lurched into motion, stumbling, but staying on his feet. The mess around him, the swarming federal agents and the flashing lights from the emergency responders, all of that blurred and faded.

He kept his attention firmly on the man striding ahead towards an unknown future, and the heavy, precious weight in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 more chapters tk after a final look thru.


	10. many hundred miles, won't be long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cobb takes lunch outside and runs into an old friend.

Downtown Mos Pelgo wasn’t much of anything beyond half a square mile of commercial and civic buildings around an old town that was only just hitting its centennial. Still, there’s just enough brick-paved streets and turn-of-the-century street lamps to strike a bit of small-town charm, Norman Rockwell by way of _Gunsmoke_.

The marshal’s offices were a block off the main avenue, occupying the back of the Mos Pelgo courthouse— _not_ particularly charming or nostalgic, unless one missed the Brutalist era of architecture. There was never enough space on the cramped floor, and all too often competition over the conference rooms got vicious; Cobb once had to nudge Mandy’s paperweight out of reach when a meeting with the DA ran long by ten minutes. It’s the sad truth; while Mos Pelgo wasn’t much bigger than a postage stamp in the grand scheme of cities, it occupied an extremely convenient point equidistant from three other larger cities, and the foot traffic through the office certainly reflected it.

So, sometimes, days like these, when the office was overrun with folks from two other districts, including the chief deputy of the next town over, settling over every inch of spare surface like locusts, Cobb did the gentlemanly and cowardly thing—he offered up his own office to the visiting chief, grabbed his laptop, slid past Mandy’s white-knuckled typing and laser glare, and escaped to the charming, brick-paved and significantly more sedate main street.

There’s a pub on the corner with some history attached to its old, scratched up bar and heavy wooden shutters. A plaque next to the door proclaimed it a landmarked site where the original town charter had been signed by the early settlers in the area. Its efficacy as a draw for tourists was doubtful, but as a neighboring watering hole it was beyond reproach. The beers were reliably cold, the food unchanging, and no one tried to make small talk before six pm.

Cobb stuck his head inside to alert the owner and bartender to his presence before taking his usual table outside on the wooden porch, at the end and furthest from the door. Easy pathway to gain cover, and also closest to the wall outlet. By the time he set up his laptop, the proprietor had emerged with an iced coffee and a club sandwich and fries.

Lunch passed in a pleasant, peaceful hour. Cobb munched through the sandwich, picked at the fries. He caught up on some paperwork and pecked out some emails, avidly avoiding Mandy’s testy-polite texts hinting at the escalating chaos back in the office. Whatever previews he saw on his phone’s lock screen further resolved his decision to stay put for the rest of the afternoon.

Cobb wasn’t completely surprised when she finally lost patience and called, and to his credit, he didn’t let it ring more than twice before picking up.

“Hiya Mandy.”

There was a dull roar of chattering voices and phones ringing in the background. “Chief,” she said, sounding unamused. That was all she said, in that particular tone of voice. Cobb felt the half-grin, half-grimace cross his face. He leaned back in his chair, enough to see past the edge of the bar and squint down the alley and through to the next block. Just beyond the tops of the palo verde trees, he could see the roof of the courthouse. From a distance, it seemed so quiet, he thought wistfully.

“Can you gimme twenty minutes?”

“Oh, you’re long past the grace period,” she told him dryly. “Look sharp, he’s heading for you.”

“Who? Mandy-”

The seat across from him was dragged out. Cobb thunked forward on all four chair legs as he whipped around to stare at the newcomer.

“You should have read my texts,” Mandy said, an undercurrent of vengeful glee in her polite reproach.

“I really should have, Mandy, my apologies. I’ll make it up to you later,” he said, and hung up. The man across from him settled into the chair and beamed placidly.

“Hello, Chief Vanth.”

“Luke Skywalker,” Cobb replied slowly. “Been some time.”

Luke’s smile grew. “It has, hasn’t it? Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

“Oh, I remember,” Cobb said, dry. As a beat cop fresh from the academy, he’d logged more time than he cared to chasing down Skywalker and his friends for drag racing along the abandoned tracks outside of Mos Eisley. Even before then, he’d been aware of the kid; though Skywalker had gone to school the next town over and the summer after Cobb had left, he’d been enough of a pitching sensation to be the talk around town come baseball season. It’d been amusing and much less tragic for Cobb to hear his former teammates bemoaning the new star pitcher for the Chottsville Cyclones once his own pride wasn’t on the line.

“May I join you?”

Cobb raised an eyebrow at him. “Now I know your Aunt Beru didn’t raise you to be facetious.”

“Oh no, that was all Quantico,” Luke said blithely. Cobb huffed laughter despite himself, and then he sighed and gestured for him to go on. “I’ve got some business to discuss.”

“Business that involves Mos Pelgo, or business with me specifically?”

“Both, it turns out.”

Cobb considered him, professional to professional. The gossip mill around here worked just fine; he knew what this man had been up to in intervening years, the mysterious full-ride scholarship, the two tours with the Air Force, his meteoric rise through the Bureau, as well as his sudden remove to a more subdued corner of the agency. Glibber tongues proclaimed it a demotion, but Cobb never believed it. Now, seeing him again, wrapped in and projecting a confident, assured air, he knew he’d been right not to.

“Well, now, this is a surprise,” Cobb said lightly, never looking away from Skywalker’s calm gaze. “Suppose you’d better go on and tell me all about it.”

“There’s a friend we have in common,” Luke told him, that damned smug smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Irritating as hell, but his words were more than enough to catch Cobb’s interest.

He said slowly, “Would this be two friends in particular?”

Luke laughed. “Yes, one pint-sized.”

Cobb nodded. His ears had gone quiet and tense, hands carefully stilled, attention dialed up to the full.

“They are safe,” Luke said. “The arrests have been made, and both the agent and the asset were retrieved with minimal harm to their persons.”

“Well if that ain’t the music,” Cobb sighed, and offered Skywalker a real grin. “If this is the news I can expect whenever the Feds roll into town, I can’t say I mind.”

“So noted, Marshal. But I’m not here just to bring joyful tidings; there is an actual reason for this meeting.”

“Email wouldn’t’ve cut it?”

Luke’s smile turned sly. “Can’t email a witness through the internet.”

Cobb blinked slow as his grip spasmed on the arms of his chair. “They’re here? They’re—both—here?”

Luke tilted his head down the street. Reflexively, Cobb’s gaze drifted towards the indicated direction and locked on the Days Inn a few blocks away. “Under guard for now, but we’re hoping to release them into different accommodations ASAP.”

“Hold on.” Cobb stopped him with a lifted finger, voice sharper than intended. “Just a minute, Agent Skywalker. Now, last I heard, this case with Empire Inc. is nowhere near this jurisdiction, not to mention the local Bureau offices. But you’re putting them up here? Mos Pelgo.”

“Mos Pelgo,” Luke affirmed. “It’s true Empire and Gideon won’t be tried here, but that’s nothing some car or airplane won’t fix. And they are free citizens; can’t hold them where they don’t want to be. Besides, I happen to have a high opinion of Mos Pelgo and its surrounding townships. It’s not a bad place to raise a kid. I think our mutual friend agrees.”

Cobb’s mind ground to a halt, heart still racing. Some kind of excitement sang through his veins, but he couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. “You make this sound like something close to permanent. I was under the impression that our mutual friend is an active-duty operative, set to return to his unit.”

“People can change jobs, Cobb,” Luke said dryly.

“He quit?”

“Promoted out of the field, more like. I don’t have all the details, something their people worked out between themselves.”

“But the kid—"

At that, Luke softened. “We’re working with him as a key witness, and also with the—” here, he waggled his fingers, “but it’s not like we’re going to keep him locked up in HQ in between evaluation and training sessions. He’s a kid, he needs his dad, and a normal childhood. After a thorough discussion with social services, the operative decided he wanted to start the adoption process.”

Cobb couldn’t help the slow, broad grin, the warmth of relief that washed over him. “Well now.” His gaze traveled back towards the hotel. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all week. Good for them.” A memory flashed through his mind, coming home one afternoon and seeing the pair seated on the floor of the living room. Both of them limned golden in the afternoon desert light, the rumbling purr of Din eking out a rusty lullaby just to draw a smile and coo from his captive audience. Out loud, half to himself, Cobb murmured, “So, they’re staying on, are they?”

Luke tilted his head. “I’ve got reason to think some of the final say lies with you, Marshal.”

“’Course, the office can certainly provide assistance on the court dates.”

Luke blinked slow. “They won’t need marshal service, Cobb. But they could use a place to stay, and I was told that you might be amenable to putting them up until they get sorted out,” he said, deliberate.

Cobb stared at him for a full beat before he laughed. Standing up, he snapped his laptop closed and slid it into his case, tucked his phone into his pockets. “Well, excuse me, Skywalker. Seems I’ve got an urgent meeting to get to.” He caught only a flash of Luke’s bright grin as he passed him on the way to the pavement.

“Room 24D, Marshal,” Luke called after him. Cobb raised a hand in acknowledgment and kept walking, faster and faster until he was nearly jogging.

Only three blocks away, but it felt an eternity before he found himself crossing the motel parking lot and taking the stairs two at a time. He slowed as he neared the room, the white noise in his head receding some, just enough for the doubts to come crowding in. Crazy—he was crazy, right? Who went haring off after some guy, who’d been a- a glorified roommate, with a kid no less. Who went and _fell in lo-_ and at his age, and pining like an entire goddamn forest? He was a chief deputy marshal for chrissakes.

But here he was, and he had to think—Din chose to come back to Mos Pelgo. He’s keeping the kid, and he wants to be _here._ Cobb wasn’t vain enough to think he could be any sort of deciding factor in that final decision. As a bonus, though?

The door in front of him swung open. Cobb hadn’t even realized he’d stopped in front of the room at all, but oh, hell.

There he was, rumpled, a little tense. Thinner, and there was the faded echo of a massive bruise along his temple, lord. But his brown eyes were as clear ever, and a tentative smile lurked at the corners of his mouth, growing as Cobb stared, speechless for the first time in ages.

“Cobb,” Din greeted.

“Din,” Cobb replied on automatic.

From the recesses of the room, a small scramble sounded and then a little whirlwind came darting out.

“Hey, little fella!” Cobb laughed, jolted out of his daze to swing a shrieking toddler into his arms.

“Oh HI Cobb! I MISS you!” Grogu shouted in his lilting baby singsong, and Cobb swallowed before he could respond.

“Me too, kiddo. Lookit you, all walkin’ and talkin’ now. God, he’s gotten big,” he said to Din, who shrugged, helplessly fond.

“He’s a miracle.”

Cobb cuddled and exclaimed over the kid for another moment before Grogu started squirming to be let down. As soon as he was grounded, he trundled back into the room hollering about some toy or book for show-and-tell. Din turned back to Cobb as though he didn’t want to look anywhere else.

“It’s good to see you,” Din confessed.

God. Cobb couldn’t even remember why he’d been nervous. All that remained was a comforting familiarity, easier than it’d been before. Alright, yes, maybe he owed Skywalker a favor for this.

“So,” Cobb cleared his throat. “Heard you’re looking for a place to stay.”

The smile that crept across Din’s face was like a desert sunrise. “Our situation’s a little unconventional.”

Cobb’s heart lurched almost painfully. If he leaned in closer than strictly professional, he didn’t see anyone protesting. “Oh, I can work with unconventional.”

Din ducked his head. He touched Cobb’s arm lightly, fingertips brushing just above his elbow. “I’d hoped so,” he said, low but full of intense relief.

“Did you ever doubt it?” Cobb asked, equally intense and held his gaze for a long, purposeful beat until the same subtle, relieved joy mirrored back at him.

Before Din could reply, Grogu squirmed between their legs, dragging his backpack behind him. He tugged on Cobb’s trousers. “Go now?” he said hopefully. “Go play Woomba?”

Cobb threw back his head and laughed as Din picked him up and settled him on his hip. “You miss the Roomba, huh? Okay, kid, sure.” He flickered a wink at Din, added softer, “Let’s get you guys home.”


	11. I don't mind, you don't mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a pre-holiday coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for following along and for showing the love-- definitely did not expect it, and it's been wonderful and inspiring. Hope you all enjoy this last bit!

Dinner’s a chicken over carrots and potatoes that just went in the oven, and wine Cobb had picked up on the way home from work. Usually, he sticks to beer or bourbon, and Din avoids it altogether out of habit. But today seems like a special occasion—three weeks into their return to Mos Pelgo, Grogu’s first weekend away from home with the FBI. Din hadn’t been allowed to accompany the kid past the lobby of the drop-off site and he’s been clench-jawed and fidgety ever since. They’re picking Grogu up first thing Monday morning, but until then, Cobb has a helicopter dad to distract—so wine it was.

Only thing was, now that waiting’s all that’s left to do, Din’s disappeared completely. The motion sensor cameras outside are pinging notifications on his phone though, so Cobb grabs his jacket off the wall hook and goes looking.

Cobb finds him outside under the old mesquite tree, tying something to the low, scraggly branches. Daylight’s fast fading, wounded purple sinking to the dark of night. The porch light casts a shallow glowing circle over the front drive, strong and bright but bounded by shadows.

“When’d you get into landscaping?” Cobb asks, as he crunches over the gravel. Din doesn’t look away from his task, focused intently on the branch above his head. Cobb peers at him, then up at the branches in bemusement. He sees a flash of something round and shining, blown glass maybe. “Christmas ornament?”

“It’s for Grogu,” Din murmurs. He finishes attaching the bauble to the branch and slowly, slowly, lets go. His hands remained caged below, as though preparing to watch it when it falls. But the tie holds, and Cobb sees a simple glass ball, matte silver with silver glitter tracing elaborate curls over the surface, swaying and spinning lazily. Din finally darts a look to him. “He saw the tree at the mall last year around Christmas. And at the time, we… couldn’t really do anything about it. But he asked about it last week, I thought. Well. You have a tree out here.” The words run out; he goes back to staring at the silver ball, shoulders tight.

Instead of quipping about being off-season, Cobb steps up next to him. “It’s a big tree,” he comments. “You got more of those?”

When Din glances at him sideways, smiling crookedly, Cobb knows he said the right thing.

Turns out Din has a discounted set of six from the dollar store, cheap and fragile things with loose caps at the top where the hooks catch and slip through. They get five up, but the sixth can’t withstand their vigorous efforts to attach it to the branch. The ball slips free of the cap, bounces square off Cobb’s nose, and shatters at their feet.

“Oh,” Cobb says, “balls.”

Din stares at him and then abruptly pivots away.

“Din?” Cobb says, alarmed. “I’m so sorry, I can get more next—you laughing at me?”

Din snorts, one hand over his eyes and waves him off. “Nono, just-” He snorts and is unintelligible again, shoulders shaking. “Nose,” he manages.

“Yes, laugh at my near disaster,” Cobb grumbles, but he’s grinning helplessly, the sight of the usually sober Din’s mirth fizzing like seltzer under his skin. “If it’d broke my face, you’d be sorry then.”

“Very,” Din agrees solemnly, the smile still twitching the corner of his mouth.

“My best feature, ruined. Hell, I’d have to make use of my job, go into hiding.”

Shaking his head, Din reaches up to tug the errant hook free from the branch. Cobb catches the branch and holds it steady for him. His free hand hovers at Din’s shoulder for balance. Overhead, the wind sighs through the branches, wicking the leftover heat from the day away into the desert flatlands. Glass ornaments tinkle softly as they bump up against other branches and leaves. From the house, the radio’s just a discernible buzz, rising and falling in speechlike cadence.

“Cobb?”

“Hm?”

Mostly in shadows, Din’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes seem dark and fathomless. Underneath the thin weave of his sweater, his shoulder radiates heat; only then does Cobb realize his thumb is stroking absently the same patch of wool. He stills his hand, but leaves it where it is. Din doesn’t shrug him off, but he also doesn’t seem to be breathing.

Cobb’s not an idiot. He’s no moon-eyed youth trembling with clumsy nerves. He understands, in a distant, abstract way that they’ve been making their way to this point all along. Doesn’t mean that it’s still not terrifying as all get out though.

Din, who’s still as a statue and shaded blue by night. Cobb’s seen him lay out a rampaging lowlife with a single brutally efficient hit. Has watched him shoot bullseye 20 yards away and from a speeding vehicle.

And the one time Din actually stumbled across a rattler in the backyard, he’d flung Grogu bodily at Cobb, a yard away, on pure reflex and then jammed a five-gallon bucket they’d filled with creek water and tads over the poor snake, who hadn’t even been fully roused.

Cobb grins at the memory of clutching Grogu on stunned instinct, staring at Din bent over the upended bucket and heaving great, shocked breaths.

Christ, if that hadn’t pushed Cobb over the precipice… but hell, if he’s perfectly honest, he’s been gone since day one, that very first night. When Cobb finally arrived home, bearing a couple Walmart bags of baby supplies and a soft plush frog, it was to find the pair of them in the bathroom. Grogu, splashing enthusiastically while Din held onto the slippery babe with both hands as though afraid to somehow lose him in the tub, the gleeful shrieking mingling with soft responses echoing off the tiles. Din’s fond smile, bathwater soaking into his sleeves and shirt collar, Grogu’s full throated cackling. This bathroom Cobb’d been in a thousand instances before, but never expected to see occupied quite like this.

That was it. That was all. Just a strange little shift in Cobb’s unremarkable reality, and he was gone.

Knowing all this doesn’t soften the terror. But Din’s been brave for so long, Cobb figures that this time, he can be brave for the both of them.

So, Cobb kisses him.

An eternity, a millisecond, some time later, Din sighs soundlessly. Pulls back a little but only enough to catch sight of Cobb’s dazed expression and snort. It’s dark enough to hide the blush along his cheeks. Cobb grins and reels him back in.

And on it goes. There’s urgency building and simmering along his veins, but it’s easy enough to ignore for now, easier still to dissolve into the newness of this joy, and adore the contrast of warmth and welcome to the cooling desert surround.

“I’ve got ornaments in the office closet,” Cobb says breathlessly, later. “Old ones, my mother’s. We can dig ‘em out. Hang them all up. Buy some lights, get them on the roofs.”

Din ducks his head into the cradle of Cobb’s warm palm. “It’s the middle of summer,” he reminds him, not quite able to suppress his grin.

“So what, Christmas in July, why not? Or who’s to say we can’t gussy up a tree for Independence Day?” Cobb feels expansive, magnanimous. The world is singing with crickets and the sweet scent of chaparral sparkles in his lungs. If challenged, he might successfully run a six-minute mile which he hasn’t done in half a decade. Thankfully for his knees, Din’s arms, circled around him, tether him to earth; he accepts another lingering kiss, slow and sweet as honey.

They both flinch when shrill beeping breaks the spell; the world around them jumps back into focus.

Cobb fumbles off the timer on his phone, and grins sheepishly at Din. “That’d be dinner.”

Din nods, smile crooked. He quirks an eyebrow in the direction of the house in silent invitation.

“We’d better,” Cobb agrees, and then slings a low arm around Din experimentally. Maybe it’s too much, or maybe not. Will they be the sort to greet each other with a casual press of lips to forehead, cheek? Or would every touch, every intimacy remain reverent and private?

A couple awkward steps later, Cobb’s arm drops away as they walk—and Din catches his wrist. Gently slides his grip to Cobb’s hand and squeezes it briefly before letting go.

“The tree looks nice.”

“Yeah, it does. You wanna listen to Christmas songs during dinner?”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“How ‘bout I sing ‘em to you?”

“Whatever’s playing on the radio right now is fine.”

“That’s because you’ve never heard my ‘Santa Baby’.”

“Don’t start-”

“ _Santa Baby, slip a sable under the tree_ -”

“Please go check on dinner and let me set the table in peace.”

“You’re laughing, I can hear you.”

“Go!”

The front door closes and the cheerful noise from inside the house muffles. A few moments later, the porch light turns off.

Up above, the stars are shining, the moon waxes big and bright; it’s a beautiful night in the desert town of Mos Pelgo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here are [additional comments](https://chouette.dreamwidth.org/152685.html) on the newer chapters.

**Author's Note:**

> Some commentary and thoughts [here](https://chouette.dreamwidth.org/152420.html)


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